Haunted by God
Published in Issue #11 Translated from Hebrew by Stephen Katz subscribe to unlock the full storyGevalt! Who’d have believed that just as we left home after so much work, especially on the territorial heights, and even after we plunged into the depths of detail and gathered more supplies than had ever been gathered before, under our beds of course, and even carried carbide in our bags—for smoke bombs and the like—as we made our way through familiar places, we should begin, my father and I, to argue like little children.
Unbelievable! The mind rebels. It was early morning. I remember it well because my role in our unit was to observe the morning hours, to note in the travel log each aspect of that sunny gentleman. Father was suspicious of morning’s benevolence and asked that I keep a close watch over it and note any irregularity. “Only what’s relevant to the morning, and nothing beyond that,” he shouted, “and don’t work yourself into everything, not even into the log. My eyes aren’t so sharp, and I don’t feel like stumbling into you any more than I have to.” That’s what my commanding officer said when he was in good spirits.
It was early September. We wanted to return before the coming of winter. I left the house first. Father asked if the morning was smiling at us. “Yes, sure,” I said, reluctant to get into specifics and scrutinize tiresome details, such as that in the sky’s western extremities—that’s how he taught me: extremities—I noticed the gathering of clouds of diverse shapes, the ones I used to call “cloudies.” Should I tell him about the cloudies or keep my mouth shut? I decided to keep my own counsel and not mention the cloudies and just make obvious remarks like, for example, that on the right side of the skies—don’t say heavens—the clouds that gathered looked like our family’s chansonnier, Charles Aznavour. Am I to blame that’s what they looked like up there? Behind the Aznavours, other skirt-like clouds gathered, dripping with the kind of...
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